


One If By Floo

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-10
Updated: 2006-05-10
Packaged: 2019-01-19 12:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12410031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: An unexpected firecall could change everything for Harry and Hermione.





	One If By Floo

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

“Hello? Anybody home?”

Hermione unfolded herself from the book she was hunched over, wincing when her neck cricked loudly, and glared out the open door into the living room. She seriously considered ignoring the interruption, but the voice jangling through her flat was unfamiliar; it wasn't just Harry trying to coerce her into visiting him at work or Ron popping in to see if she wanted to grab lunch. She cast a longing look at the book she'd been working with, then sighed as she marked where she'd left off and padded out of the spare-room-cum-office. 

The pudgy face of a middle-aged witch was hovering in the fireplace, squinting as she peered at the small collection of wizarding photographs on the wall. Hermione was sure she'd seen the woman before, but was irked to find she couldn't quite place her.

“Can I help you?” 

The woman started, her lavender-lidded eyes landing guiltily on Hermione.“He-hello, I'm Hestia McNoll, from Abram's Apothecary.”

“Yes?” Hermione asked politely, kneeling in front of the hearth.

The witch paused, looking suspiciously like she was preparing herself for something unpleasant. “We've discovered a problem with a batch of the Contraceptive Potion you use, and we're fairly certain that your last dose was one of the bad batch.”

“What?” Hermione sat back on her heels, a wrinkle appearing in her brow as her mind turned over this unsettling piece of information. “What do you mean by 'bad batch'?”

This Hestia McNoll, Bearer of Disturbing News, rushed ahead with what was obviously a rehearsed speech, though she kept shooting what she seemed to think were subtle looks behind Hermione. “The binding agent in the potion is supposed to be harvested during the dark of the moon, and apparently one bundle of the agent was shipped to the makers of the potion that had been picked during the waxing moon, which would obviously make it more useful in--”

“Fertility potions.” Hermione's thoughts were running a track she didn't like one bit, but she mentally cautioned herself to get all the facts before jumping to conclusions. “But contraceptive potions and fertility potions have completely different ingredients--”

“Yes,” Hestia interrupted, “so it's unlikely that it catalysed conception, but the fact remains that a small number of our potions were made with an incorrect binding ingredient, so ...” 

Hermione didn't even notice the uncomfortable silence as Hestia trailed off; she was much too busy trying to put together everything that had just been thrust upon her in a way that didn't equal pregnancy. There was one fact in her favor. “But you said there was only a chance that I'd received one of the faulty potions, right?” 

“Well...” Hestia finally quit trying to covertly examine the room and gave Hermione her full attention. “We're fairly certain...”

“Will you please stop being so insufferably vague?” Hermione's voice might have been sharp, had she managed to keep the urgency from it. “What exactly does 'fairly certain' mean?”

“We're positive.” Hestia offered her a weak, apologetic smile. “We recommend that you use a secondary method of birth control until it's time for your next dose of the Potion, which we will of course provide for you at no charge--”

“It's too late for that!” Hermione exclaimed shrilly. “And obviously I'm not going to be getting my potions from you any longer, you gave me--do you have any idea--” 

She was sputtering, and forced herself to stop. “Are there any other options? Anything to prevent pregnancy even if I've had sex since taking the potion? Muggles have a morning-after pill--” Hestia huffed, scandalised; she sounded eerily like Hermione's mother when talking about at-home teeth-whitening kits. “We here in the magical world are not barbarians, and I'll have you know--”

“I really don't need a lecture, thanks.” In all honesty, it didn't matter; she didn't know if she was even comfortable with the idea of taking a morning-after pill. She hadn't done nearly enough research on the subject.

Hermione glared at the other woman, hating the idea of having to ask her anything. “What are the chances that I could...” She swallowed, hard. “Be pregnant?”

Hestia looked like she still had half a mind to continue on about the barbaric Muggle world, but answered Hermione's question. “Well, that depends on a number of factors, including how many times you've engaged in penetrative sex since taking the potion and where you are in your cycle.”

Hermione did some rapid calculations in her head. “Five times—no, six—no, wait, seven, and...ovulating.” 

Hestia's eyebrows shot up like a pair of arched caterpillars. “Didn't you just pick up your potion two days ago?”

“That's really none of your business!” Hermione screeched, trying to quell the panic unwinding in her chest.

“Well, considering the circumstances, I'd say there's a mid-to-high chance that you and your husband could be expecting.” The witch's face suddenly lit up, and she craned her neck to glance hopefully behind Hermione again. “Is he around? I should probably be talking to both of you.”

“I'm not married,” Hermione spat, trying to regain her emotional equilibrium. “And you will be hearing from my solicitor.”

“But I read in the <i>Daily Prophet</i>\--”

“That so-called paper is nothing but rubbish, and only dim-witted gossip mongers read it.” Hermione eyed the other woman, adding scathingly: “Explains rather a lot about this conversation, actually.”

Hestia lifted her chin, though she blushed red beneath her rouge. “You can hardly expect us to be held responsible for a manufacturer's defect, and--”

“We'll see about that!” Hermione was very nearly yelling as she got to her feet. “Now clear off! And if I read one word about my and Harry's sex life in the <i>Daily Prophet</i>, you'll have more than lawyers to worry about!”

Hestia opened her mouth, but before she could say a word, Hermione growled, “I'm closing the Floo. Now.” Hestia's eyes widened as Hermione reached to do just that, and her pudgy face disappeared from the fireplace, leaving Hermione alone in the living room. 

***

Four days later, Hermione was ensconced in her office, her research and notes for her book on Horcruxes set aside in favor of every book Hogwarts had on fertility and pregnancy. 

Madame Pince had barely let her take them, despite the Headmistress's standing orders that Hermione was welcome to anything in the library. “These need to be returned within five days,” she'd said sternly, giving Hermione's belly the beady eye. “Some girls are much too shy to go to Madam Pomfrey or their Heads of house with questions on this kind of thing; these books are their only resource.”

As if Hermione wouldn't know that; she had been one of those girls, after all. Not necessarily too shy, but she'd found everything else in books. Why should sex be any different?

Hermione sighed, kneading her once-again stiff neck as she sat back in her chair, mentally measuring the piles of books before her; though the stack of those she'd gone through took up half her desk, the other half was obscured by the ones she hadn't. Hermione grabbed her wand and pulled up her shirt to expose her stomach.

She pointed her wand at her abdomen, performing a spell she'd known since sixth year, but hadn't had to use until that abysmal Hestia McNoll showed up in her fireplace. Hermione's stomach glowed yellow, and she put her wand away as she blew out a deep breath. She wasn't pregnant.

Yet.

It could take up to fifteen days for the hormone that the standard pregnancy spells detected to appear, and Hermione was hoping to find something, anything, in her books that would yield earlier results. Her efforts so far had proved fruitless, however, and she was growing increasingly frustrated with this not knowing. And she wanted to tell Harry what was going on, that she--they--might be having a baby, but she had no idea how he would feel about the possibility. It seemed senseless tell him that she <i>might</i> be pregnant; better to wait until she knew.

But it wasn't easy to keep something so huge to herself, especially with Harry going to increasingly adorable lengths to keep her near him and away from her research as the days went by. 

Hermione had banished him from her office long ago, as he'd been wont to come sidling in to distract her with roaming hands and lips, but even from the doorway he'd often managed to persuade her out with a few coaxing words and a mischievous smile (and one very memorable time, a striptease). He was none-too-pleased that Hermione refused to leave her work for anything but meals now, and had taken to making the most of every opportunity to keep her from her office. 

So far Hermione had resisted, but she didn't know how much more she'd be able to take. Just that morning, at breakfast, he'd told a very long and rambling story about going to the corner store for milk and being shanghaied into buying mango, and ended it by pulling her into his lap and feeding her fresh slices of the fruit, kissing clean the juice that dribbled down her chin. She'd had to summon every ounce of her will to keep from snogging him silly or confessing the firecall she'd received; in the end she had fled to her books, but it had been a very close call. She pushed aside a few scraps of parchment and picked up the beginnings of a pros and cons list for getting pregnant. At the top of the “Pros” list was <i>I love Harry</i>.

“I do,” she mumbled, tracing the words with a finger.

“Talking to yourself, Hermione?” Harry's teasing voice startled her and she nearly fell out of her seat, scrambling to cover the nearest book with her flipped over list. 

“Harry!” Hermione stood and moved to usher Harry out the door. “You know you're not supposed to be in here, I can't ever get any work done--”

“You've been working plenty,” he said firmly, slipping an arm around her waist and guiding her back over to the desk.

“No, really, I'm at a very critical stage in my research,” she insisted, horrified, as the towering stacks of pregnancy books loomed closer with each step.

Harry didn't even notice them.

“You've been at a 'critical stage' for the last four days; you deserve a break.” 

Harry turned the wooden chair at her desk sideways and settled himself on it before pulling her down onto his lap and gathering her mass of bushy hair in one hand to nuzzle the back of her neck. “I miss you.”

“Harry...” Hermimone relaxed the slightest bit against him, resting a hand on the one he had splayed against her stomach. “Aren't you supposed to be with Ron and Mal at the Cannons game?”

Harry snorted. “We were having a great time, until Mal started screaming and pitching a fit about fifteen minutes into the game.” He went on, describing Mal's tantrum with undeniable affection. “We tried bribing him with sweets and omnoculars, but he kept at it until Ron finally took him home.”

Hermione had to smile at that, sinking further back against his chest. “That's what you get for bringing a toddler to a Quidditch match; he's not even two yet. Honestly.”

“Ron was just so excited to take him to his first Cannons game, his first Quidditch game. I suppose we should have known not to when even Luna thought it was a bad idea.” He kissed just behind her ear, sliding one finger between the buttons of her shirt to caress her stomach. “But as long as we had to leave early, anyway...I thought you and I could have a little time together.”

“I have to get back to work,” Hermione replied quickly, rising. She was sure that “a little time together” was nothing they could do until it was safe for her to take another Contraceptive Potion. “Hermione.” Harry pulled her back down before she'd fully stood, and now she was sitting sideways on his lap. Hermione could see the frown creasing his lips out of the corner of her eye. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” Hermione tipped her head down to stare at her hands twisted together in her lap, her hair falling like a bushy brown curtain between her profile and Harry's gaze. “I'm just...I'm really busy with this research.” 

“Hey.” Harry wrangled most of the frizzy locks behind Hermione's ear and brushed his knuckles along the curve of her jaw. “Don't.”

“I'm sorry I haven't been in the mood lately.” She fought the urge to shake her hair back over her face; she could smell chocolate frogs with each warm puff of his breath over her cheek, and she found she couldn't quite look at him.

“It's not that.” Harry shifted on the chair, steadying her with one hand when he jostled her. “I mean, it's not just that. I worry about you when you work so hard.”

“You don't have to worry about me.” Guilt sank like lead in Hermione's stomach, and she unclenched her hands to turn and kiss him, her tongue winding an invitation around his. She only broke away once they were both breathless, nudging his nose with her own. Harry was tilting his head for another kiss when a ball of orange fur streaked down from the top of the filing cabinet, landing on the desk and knocking a stack of books onto Hermione's lap, most of them falling from there onto the floor.

“Ow! Crookshanks!” Crookshanks threw a haughty look at Hermione around his bottle brush tail as he strutted to the door, wiggling his whiskers disapprovingly. She glanced down at the heavy weight in her lap, the words <i>What to Expect When You Expect to Be Expecting</i> like a gold-gilt beacon on the cover; she tried to act casual as she hastily turned the book over, but her heart felt like it was about to pound out of her chest. 

Tense seconds passed with Hermione perched stiffly on Harry's lap, willing him to continue being oblivious, but he was ominously silent. Working up her courage, she looked over to find him staring at a piece of parchment next to the chair. Her brief hope that it was research for the book she was writing evaporated in a whiff of panic as her eyes fell on the clearly-visible heading, penned in her neat hand.

“What is that?” he asked, leaning down to pick it up.

“Don't--” Hermione reached down to snatch it, but Harry was too fast. He held the thick parchment between loose fingers, but his gaze was on her face, painted with raw emotion that she couldn't hope to conceal, and she felt naked in the worst possible way. 

“Please, just give--” She tried again to grab the paper, but he stilled her hand with firm fingers on her wrist, bringing his attention back to the parchment. 

“'Pros and Cons of Pregnancy,'” Harry read aloud as he released her, and Hermione was back to staring at her hands in her lap.

“'Pros: I love Harry. Harry loves me.” His hand was on her back now, palming slow circles through her blouse, and Hermione could barely breathe as he went on. 

“'We're both used to babies because of Mal. Harry would be a wonderful father.” His voice caught on the last words, and Hermione peeked at him to find an expression on his face she'd never seen before. She had to look away. 

“My parents would be thrilled. We can both change diapers.' That's struck out, though, and then it says 'I can change diapers.'” Amusement emerged as the one emotion she could recognise in his tone, but it faded fast as he continued. 

“'Harry could teach him or her to play Quidditch. I could teach them to read. Ron would be a great godfather. We can easily afford to raise a child. We'd get to raise a child. We'd be a family.'”

Harry paused, his hand slowing until it was motionless on her back. “'Cons: I'm scared. I don't know if Harry is ready. I don't know if I'm ready. Having a baby of our own is much different than baby-sitting Mal. We might be terrible parents. Luna would fill our child's head with crazy ideas. The press would have a field day. You can't learn mothering from a book.'” Harry's voice ran out with the end of the list, and adrenaline poured into her blood as she waited for him to speak again. “Hermione...what is this?”

Hermione wished she could move, or even think properly, but it was as though her body had shut down on her and she was trapped staring down at her knotted up hands with empty eyes and an even emptier head.

“Hermione?” Harry sounded worried, she noted in some recess of her mind that apparently still existed, and suddenly she could think again. Hermione pried her fingers apart and stood. Harry didn't try to stop her this time.

“I told you not to look at it.” She was across the room, studying the grain on one of the bookshelves.

“Are you pregnant?” 

“I was...trying to figure things out.” Hermione toyed with the metal frame of a wizarding picture propped on the top shelf of the low bookcase, of Harry sneaking up behind her to scoop her into his arms. 

“How long?”

She turned away from the photograph, her eyes drawn against her will to the real Harry. “Four days.” 

“You've known you might be pregnant for four days...” She saw his eyes dim before he looked away, reaching over to set the parchment on her desk, his gaze traveling the maze of books. She wished he would look at her again. She was glad he didn't.

“No, I didn't--it wasn't like I knew and I was keeping it from you, I was going to tell you--”

“When were you going to tell me, Hermione?” Harry's jaw was set as he continued to look at the books on the desk, and Hermione felt horribly like he was examining evidence against her.

“Once I knew if I was,” she replied lamely.

“You should have told me to begin with.” Harry stood, running a hand through his hair. “Would you just never have told me if it turned out you weren't?”

“I didn't want to worry you--it seemed senseless to get you worked up if it might be a false alarm.” Hermione crossed the room to lay a tentative hand on his arm. “I wanted to figure things out first.”

Harry looked down at her hand, but he still wouldn't look at her. “Harry...I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--”

He brushed her hand away and grabbed her list off the desk. “'I love Harry. Harry loves me.' How come you can write that but you can't say it?”

Harry finally pulled his gaze from the parchment to her face, and Hermione's heart felt like it was caving in on itself. “You know I love you.”

“I know you do, but you never say it! I never say it.” He gripped the parchment tightly, the lines of his shoulders growing taut. 

“I just said that I love you!” Hermione shot back, exasperated. “Where is this coming from?”

“I don't understand...” Harry was looking at the parchment again, as though somehow it must hold all the answers. “I never really thought about things, I didn't...”

“You're not making any sense,” Hermione said dully, wanting very much to snatch the parchment out of his hands, but Harry saved her the effort; he slammed it down and shoved the chair roughly back into its niche beneath the desk. 

“Don't talk to me like I'm stupid when you're the one who can't see how fucked up we are.”

“I'm not talking to you like you're stupid, and we are not <i>fucked up</i>,” Hermione growled, pulling the chair back out for absolutely no reason. “You're making a huge deal out of nothing.”

“You might be having our baby and you didn't even tell me.” Harry rammed the chair back again, the midsection banging into the desk. “That's not nothing.” “Well apparently you've thought we're <i>fucked up</i> for God knows how long and didn't tell me,” Hermione snapped, crossing her arms despite the irrational temptation to yank the chair out again.

“I just said--I never thought about how we are! But you're keeping things from me, and--” Harry's features twisted, and Hermione could tell he was battling frustration as he tried to find the right words. “We never tell each other we love each other, and...we're just...”

“I tell you I love you,” Hermione replied stubbornly.

“When? When was the last time you said, 'Harry, I love you'?” He looked at her expectantly, clutching the back of the chair with white-knuckled fingers. 

“I don't--I can't give you a date and time--”

“Because it's been that long.” Harry said quietly, and his expectant look turned sad. “I can't remember the last time I told you I loved you, either.”

“That doesn't mean anything.” Hermione's mind was racing. “We show each other that we love each other.” She uncrossed her arms to lay a hand on top of his, trying to coax him out of his death grip on the chair. 

“I'm not saying that we don't love each other.” Harry's hand wouldn't be persuaded, though he was now watching her hand atop his. “But your first reaction to finding out you might be pregnant is to run off and try to decide things for yourself. Did you ever think that maybe I'd want to be a part of that, or even just to be there for you? We’ve been together for over two years and never even talked about babies, marriage, or anything. Ever since you moved in with me, we’ve just been...” He trailed off uncertainly.

Hermione's knuckles were white now, too, atop Harry's. “Why do we need to talk about any of that? We're still young, things can change--”

Harry examined her face, his voice unnaturally calm. “I love you, and that's not going to change.”

“It might,” Hermione said, her own voice unnaturally high. “Things change, you can't promise me that they won't.”

“I love you, and that's not going to change,” Harry repeated, still much too calm. “Is it for you?”

“I don't see what any of this has to do with me not telling you I might be pregnant--”

“I want to marry you,” Harry broke in, his voice cracking. “I've wanted to marry you, but--”

“You want to <i>marry</i> me?” 

As quick as Harry had been to blurt out his revelation, he hesitated, but when he answered it was a definitive, “Yes.”

“You want to marry me...” Hermione gaped at Harry. “How long have you felt this way?” How could she not have known?

He sighed. “I don't know, Hermione. Awhile.”

“Why didn't you say anything?” And how could she not have <i>known</i>?

Harry narrowed his eyes. “That is completely different from,” he gestured with his free hand at the haphazard heaps of pregnancy books and loose parchment, “this.”

“No, I didn't mean it like that, honestly.” She must have been hurting his hand, the way she was digging her fingers into the back of his, but he didn't seem to notice and she couldn't stop herself. “I just...I had no idea.”

“I didn't want to say anything--I knew you and Ron broke up when he proposed--”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head and went right on talking. 

“I know, I talked to Ron and he said that he never should have asked you, that he was trying to fix things and it was a mistake.” His eyes went wide. “That's not why I wanted to! Not, you know, not to fix us. I didn't even realise...because I love you, you know?” He grimaced and turned his hand over to grip hers as tightly as he had been the chair. “It wasn't supposed to go like this.”

“How was it supposed to go?” Hermione was having a very hard time finding her breath, and she could barely hear herself speak. 

Harry looked at their clasped hands, green eyes almost wistful. “I thought we could go on a picnic, and you could wear that yellow sun dress I like and I had a private place picked out so after--” He cut himself off, his cheeks glowing red. “But it doesn't--do you, Hermione?”

“Do I...?” Hermione's brain was terribly numb.

“Want to marry me!” 

“Oh...do I...I hadn't thought about it.” She would have squeezed his hand, but her fingers were numb, too. “I'm sorry, you just--I wasn't expecting--”

Harry dropped her hand like it was a Blast-Ended Skrewt. “Well, I've been thinking about it. All the time, lately. I bought a ring and I could barely stand not telling you, but you were holed up in here. I know how you get, but this was even worse than usual, you wouldn't come out for anything and it turns out you were hiding--” 

“You bought a ring?” Hermione wasn't sure how much more shock she could take. 

“Yeah, after I talked to Ron, when I realised that you didn't break up with him because you hated marriage or--it doesn't even matter.” Hermione didn't think she'd ever seen Harry look so scared, and that was saying something. “I need to know, Hermione.”

“I told you, I hadn't thought--”

“Well think about it now!” Harry pushed a spare piece of parchment on the desk toward her. “Make a list if you need to, right now. But I need to know and I'm not letting you run away to figure it out.”

“You're being irrational--just give me some time,” Hermione protested.

“No.” Harry pushed the parchment at her again, and it slipped over the edge of the desk, fluttering the floor. “Why can't you just tell me? You don't need to use your head for this.” He stepped toward her, reaching out to skim his fingertips over her cheek. “Marry me?”

Hermione stared at him, at a complete and total loss for words. Her silence stretched, measured by the insubstantial ticking of the clock next to the window, and finally Harry took a step back, his hand falling to his side. “You don't, do you? You don't want to marry me, you don't want this baby...”

“I don't know what I want.” It was difficult for Hermione to admit, but Harry was turning to stone before her eyes. “What if...what if we end up like Ron and I?”

“What?” A flicker of comprehension lightened Harry's green eyes; she recognised that look from Hogwarts, when he'd worked and worked to learn a spell and finally gotten it. He stepped forward again, but closer than before, the tips of his bare toes warm against her own. He touched her cheek, lightly. “You and I aren't you and Ron. You can't let what happened between you to--is that why things are...the way they are?”

Hermione turned her head away, his fingers slipping from her cheek. “Maybe.” 

“Hermione.” Harry slid his finger along her jaw, turning her head back to meet his gaze. “Is that why you never tell me you love me? Because you're afraid it's not going to last?” 

Hermione wanted to look anywhere but at his eyes; these were things she hadn't even admitted to herself. 

She couldn't look away. “Yes.”

Harry leaned down and kissed her so softly it could barely be called a kiss. “I love you,” he whispered against her lips.

“Wha--”

“I love you,” Harry repeated, kissing her again; he was so close that Hermione couldn't decipher his expression, and trying to was making her eyes cross. She closed them.

“Now you say it.” His breath was in her mouth, carrying those words, and his arms were around her and she was pressed to him, their bodies moulding together just as perfectly as they always had. 

“You know I do.” She inhaled deeply, and his hand was on her skin now, under her shirt, damp with sweat against the small of her back.

“I know you do.” Harry kissed her, his tongue stealing past her lips to glide along the length of hers for one charged moment. “But say it.”

Hermione shivered, even as her mind lectured her on staying rational. “Saying it isn't going to fix things.” 

“It's a start.” His lips moved against her own as he spoke. “Tell me you love me.”

The clock ticking on the wall doled out minutes as she stood, silent save for her shallow breathing; her eyes were closed, but she knew by the heat of his body radiating against her that he wasn't backing away this time; he waited, obstinate, and she smiled despite herself.

“I love you,” Hermione murmured, and she was the one kissing him, rising up on her tiptoes as she wound her arms around his neck.

They kissed and kissed until Harry was pulling the chair out of the way, pushing her back against the desk, tugging at her blouse and Hermione was moaning, heedless of the book corners poking into her spine; it seemed like years since she'd last had his hands on her skin.

Hermione was on the cusp of losing herself completely in his touch as he snaked his fingers under the hem of her blouse when common sense rudely intruded. “Oh--we can't, Harry.” 

“What?” Harry was trying to pop the buttons on her top open one-handed while the other fumbled with the front clasp of her bra beneath it, and she crumpled a piece of parchment laying next to her into a tiny ball as she reminded herself of the circumstances.

“I can't go back on birth control until I know whether or not I'm pregnant.” Hermione threw aside the parchment and sat up on the desk, batting him away. 

Harry withdrew his hands from beneath her blouse, only to immediately resume working on her buttons properly now, with all ten fingers. “That's okay,” he mumbled, attaching his lips to her collarbone.

“Harry!” Hermione pushed him firmly down into the chair, though she very much wanted to let him continue.

He eyed her from where she'd sat him, visibly trying to regain control. “What?” 

Hermione snapped up the few buttons he'd managed to undo, trying not to be obvious about how hard it was for her to catch her breath. “We haven't even discussed what we're going to do, you know.”

Harry shifted in his seat, and Hermione studiously ignored his rather obvious erection. “What do you think we should do?”

“If I am or if I'm not?”

“Both.” Harry grasped her waist and pulled her forward to the edge of the desk; her breath hitched as he eased her legs apart, but he only pressed his cheek against her belly.

“Well...” she began, hesitantly running a hand through his hair. “If I'm not, then I guess we don't have anything to worry about, and if I am...we can keep it, or not.”

He turned his head, pushing her shirt up with one hand to kiss her bellybutton. “Could you give it up? If you are, I mean?”

Hermione's eyes were riveted on the sight of Harry kissing her stomach, flat now, but what if...? A collage of images ran through her head: Harry kissing her gently rounded belly, or the obvious second-trimester bump, or her poked-out bellybutton; Harry feeding her ice cream and pickles; shaking his head cluelessly while she quizzed him on wallpaper patterns; trying to figure out how to put together a Muggle crib.

“I don't think so,” she whispered, her fingers tightening in his hair.

“Good.” Harry let her shirt fall around her waist again, then began undoing her buttons once more, from the bottom up. “Because I couldn't, either.”

“Well, I might not be, anyway.” She couldn't bring herself to bat his hands away; they seemed to have a much different intent than the frenzied fingers of moments before.

Harry didn't answer, instead parting her shirt to just below her breasts to take up kissing and nuzzling her stomach once more. 

“Harry...” Hermione's eyes narrowed. “Do you want me to be pregnant?”

He still didn't answer, but she could feel a smile growing against her belly. “Harry...” she said again, a note of warning in his name, though some secret part of herself was suddenly buzzing with excitement.

Harry lifted his head from where he'd been nosing her bellybutton, that smile coupled with a mischievous shine in his eyes as he looked up at her. “Wanna go on a picnic with me, Hermione?”


End file.
